


Beauregard & Bellerose: Modern Magic

by Pastellorama



Category: Original Work
Genre: Curses, Enchantments, M/M, Magic, Original Characters - Freeform, Original Fiction, Wishes, magician, spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 15:51:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12084264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pastellorama/pseuds/Pastellorama
Summary: It has been nearly two-hundred years since their initial meeting, but the wizard Bellerose still has much work to do to capture and protect all the magic that remains in the world, and his husband, Beauregard, couldn't be happier to accompany him on every adventure.~*~ For Writing Prompt Wednesday: How would your characters adapt to living in YOUR time period with YOUR technology? ~*~





	Beauregard & Bellerose: Modern Magic

**Author's Note:**

> This story features characters from a series of mine, and will be the stars of my upcoming NaNoWriMo novel as well.

“Hey Bo, check it out.”

I stretched as I rose, sidling over to the man who beckoned me. He was of average height, his hair dark with small curls protruding from beneath a ridiculous hat that read “Daddy” in tiny plastic mirrors. His eyes, so dark it was near impossible to see where the pupil began, were trained on the screen of a laptop that had a news article pulled up.

“Theater-Goers Vanish During Film “The Absent”?” I read aloud questioningly. “Well… that’s odd.”

He turned, his chair spinning with him as he did, and looked at me. “Sounds like… we got some work to do?” he suggested, rising from his seat as he said it.

“You suppose it’s magic?”

“Duh,” he replied, already fetching a black canvas backpack and calling items from across the room using something akin to telekinesis. Thomas Valentine Bellerose, a genuine wizard, had never named his powers, seeing as I was the only one around to ever explain them to, but the internet had certainly been inventive in creating a name and type for every time of magic imagined—real or not—and, with time, the terms had become part of our vocabulary as well. 

I made a face at him, but went to retrieve my camera anyways. Several years ago I’d begun photographing some of the strange incidents I was involved in, though I was mostly interested in capturing photos of the magical beasts we encountered. My favorite book of Bellerose’s was one that documented all the mythical animals that had once roamed the world (though, many were now gone; their power living on within Bellerose). I aimed to rewrite the book, this time including photographs of every creature that was depicted within.

At some point, I’d begun a blog where I would post the unusual photos. The blog was popular, and I was renowned as a highly-skilled photo editor. In truth, I had no idea how to draw despite having had roughly two hundred years to acquire the skill. I didn’t mind, Bellerose also enjoying the odd publicity as he was often featured in my photos while he dealt with whatever curse had been activated, demon summoned, or otherwise magical problem occurred. 

I’d thought the 1900s had been odd, with electricity becoming pervasive in our day to day lives, but the 2000s were remarkably different. Our efforts to disguise ourselves were minimal, humanity so desperate for a distraction from their falling governments that our antics were often seen as entertainment specifically for them.

“Are you ready yet?” Bellerose nagged impatiently, waving for me to hurry and join him. Magic hunting had also gotten easier with the invention of the internet, humans typically reporting odd spectacles they’d witnessed online. Bellerose had created a program, titled _Ferret_ , which helped him scour the internet for signs of these happenings. 

I joined Bellerose, holding my breath as the world shifted around us. _Teleporting_ , as humanity now referred to it.

 

~*~

 

“Beauregard, will you pay attention to where you’re going,” Bellerose begged, his hand in mine as he tried to drag me along.

I couldn’t help myself, my eyes wandering towards display windows as we passed countless clothing stores. Coming from a long line of tailors, and having run my own tailoring store for twenty years back in the 1800s, I was fascinated by the constant evolution of fashion. One of the inventions I was most fond of was jeans, though Bellerose was obsessed with sweatpants. He’d always hated buttons, so it was unsurprising.

Today he’d chosen black hip hop athletic pants, hot pink zippers embellishing their design as the cuffs disappeared into high-top white sneakers; a garishly colored hoodie featuring fat text that read “VooDoo Man” completed his outfit. Even in the 1800s, I’d criticized Bellerose’s fashion sense.

Still, I could admit this was an improvement from the days when he’d walk about coatless, his shirt half untucked and his braces sliding off his shoulders. Bellerose almost seemed made for this time period, his soft slightly feminine features half the reason my photos garnered attention online. There were times I was jealous of his fan base, though he was more than happy to remind me that he knew who his biggest fan was. 

I’d forgone my sideburns as times had changed, growing the top of my brown hair long and shaving the sides. The rest I gathered into a neat bun, Bellerose often teasing me for embracing a fashion style known as “metrosexual”. I ignored his comments, preferring clothing that said I put effort into my appearances and knew what I looked best in. Today I’d dressed simply, however, selecting dark jeans, brown laced loafers, a solid blue sweater, and maroon windbreaker in preparation for the cold and dreary weather that always plagued the city Kingpin.

I tore my eyes away from a display of mannequins in ridiculous poses that would best show off their outfits, Bellerose pointing ahead of us towards the theater. It was new, the city of Kingpin only recently beginning to expand and completing their shopping plaza only earlier this week. The theater was a massive addition to it that took up one side of the plaza, featuring a full restaurant and even balcony seats for diners to watch their movies while eating.

The sky spit at us as we rushed towards the theater, threatening to rain but never fully bringing that threat to fruition. Still, I had no desire to get any wetter than necessary. 

“Isn’t it ironic that they vanished during a movie about people vanishing?” I commented, regarding the case before us as we moved through the street. Another pleasant bit of the 2000s was that there was little to no reaction to the site of Bellerose and I holding hands. We could’ve kissed on the busy walkways and the only scowls received would have been ones for blocking foot traffic.

“I don’t think it’s irony—I think it’s a hint of what we’re dealing with,” Bellerose answered. A mall-cop, silly people with not nearly as much authority as they believed, moved to intercept us when we attempted to enter the theater, Bellerose staring them dead in the eyes until they swerved and chose to go and inspect a shop full of strong smelling lotions and perfumes. We continued onward without further delay, entering the theater with Bellerose leading the way.

I could not help Bellerose with his job, as I was only a human. I was immortal, certainly, but that was Bellerose’s doing and absolutely did not reflect on any powers I held. Still, I accompanied Bellerose on nearly every adventure just to share in an experience that only we would ever understand.

Thomas Valentine Bellerose was a special man, birthed by magic itself to find and collect every piece of magic in the world and protect it for eternity. His journey had begun centuries ago, his soul having lived through nearly five-thousand years as he obeyed the instincts that coursed through him and guided him on his quest. 

I was just an unfortunate man who got caught up in what had been, essentially, a one-sided turf war between Bellerose and a villainous man named Bruin Creech. Afterwards, I’d come out immortal, destined to spend the rest of eternity with the wizard—though, some days, I felt more damned than destined. But, after almost two hundred years, it was no question if I loved Bellerose.

I got my camera ready as Bellerose approached Theater 7, my eyes noting the number and my lips pursing. Dhemanshi, creatures often referred to as demons and imps, had a love of prime numbers—particularly three and seven—and I would not have been surprised to know they had a part in this. 

Bellerose removed his backpack from his shoulders, digging through it until he produced a bone flute. 

It had taken me years to discover its purpose, each pitch resonating with different types of magic. Bellerose would put his lips to it and blow, starting the flute a high whine before allowing the pitch to slide lower and stopping when he felt the pitch connect. He would warble around that pitch, aggravating whatever enchantment was present—the noises almost acted as a way to knock the magic loose from whatever it was tethered to. 

Ready, we moved into Theater 7. The screen was abnormally bright, its whiteness glowing in the dark in the room as we entered.

Bellerose placed the flute against his lower lip and began, and I snapped a few pictures in advance to test the lighting. I was not the digital artist the internet believed me, but I did boast some skill in photography. I zoomed in to take a picture of the way Bellerose’s lips puckered when he played. They were beautiful. 

Bellerose found the tone he was searching for, and he let the sound of his flute fill the empty theater with hollow sounds that echoed. It was not a natural echo of an empty room, however, Bellerose glancing at me and nodding for me to stay out of the way. I wasn’t willing to give up on my pictures entirely, but I understood the need for caution. I took my camera and fled to the projection booth in order to meet both our needs. 

By the time I was set up, Bellerose had coaxed some monstrous pale being out of the screen, leaving nothing but a black void where the movie screen had once been. Bellerose appeared to be trying to communicate with it, but it screamed in response. Bellerose was very patient with humans, but less so with magic—I’d seen him give sanctuary to several amiable magic beings since our relationship began, allowing them to live the rest of their natural lives before consuming the magic that had created them, but, more often than not, they were destroyed.

Bellerose tried to be kind, offering every creature a chance at redemption. He just had very little tolerance for his offer being rejected, mostly because it meant the monster intended to go on harming others. It was this that Bellerose truly had no patience for. He was a good man. 

I could see Bellerose’s shoulders slump as he realized he would be getting nowhere with this particular creature. I recognized it from the creature guide as a Jatrea, a creature made of the absence of color that would take up residency wherever whiteness was found. They were so massive in size, they were typically a creature that resided in snow covered wastelands, but this one had decided a theater screen would suit it just as well. It had probably not liked having a movie played across its skin, seeing as it did not like color in the slightest.

As the Jatrea raised its hand, preparing to slam it down upon Bellerose and squash him, I began my official shoot. Bellerose would’ve survived the blow regardless, but no one enjoyed being hit by hands the size of bus-front, and he stopped the attack with a spell that gave off a flash of light. The monster’s hand was obliterated, white liquid pouring from the injury—its lack of color made it impossible to tell just what it was, but I figured it a safe assumption to call it blood.

Bellerose snarled at the Jatrea, his eyes taking on the familiar golden glow that came when he performed a violent undoing of magic. 

Enchantments, magic that had been given intent and formed into a spell or curse, all could be undone—though, the difficulty varied depending on the type of enchantment. Spells were easiest; it only took finding the right “thread” to unravel them entirely. Curses were more difficult, often having a “break” written into them that would undo them with ease, though, on occasion, the break was forgotten. The absence of a break usually indicated that the curse had formed after a wish had intercepted another spell, infecting the spell like a disease and discarding a small piece of the original spell. These types of curses were the hardest to fix, often requiring a break to be altered into them, though achieving that break would be a difficult task for whoever wore the curse.

There was one last method, however, to undoing any sort of enchantment. It was something only Bellerose could do, and something he never had offered to perform on me to rid me of my own curses when I’d first met him. I was grateful he’d kept that offer off the table, for the result was certain death. 

Bellerose would destroy the enchantment, ripping it apart and smashing every bit of it until it was too broken to carry on and was reduced to simple magic once more. It was a gift of magic itself that he was able to do this, and it was what caused his eyes to light up unnaturally as he chanted a language spoke to magic itself. The Jatrea cried angrily, screeching wails shattering the glass windows of the projection booth and cracking my camera lens, but not before I got a wonderful photo of the Jatrea shaking before dissolving into darkness.

Bellerose gave me a thumbs-up, and I repeated the gesture back to him before exiting the booth to meet him.

“Hey, can you fix this?” I asked, passing my camera to him as I surveyed the damage done to the theater. Stuffing littered the ground, the Jatrea having clawed several of the cushioned theater seats in its last moments. 

Bellerose handed the camera back, the lens as good as new, and sighed as he looked at the darkened screen. On the ground before it were nearly thirty corpses, all drained of color. I took pictures, Bellerose casting a spell over the dead and bringing the color back to them. He put a hand on my shoulder, holding me back before the ground gave way beneath the bodies and they vanished into a sudden sinkhole.

~*~

“Mysterious Vanishing of Theater-Goers Solved,” I read from the screen of my phone as Bellerose and I ate breakfast. In Bellerose’s case, this mostly involved drinking coffee. “An apparent sinkhole was responsible for the deaths of thirty-two movie attendees this last Sunday, theater security failing to notice the hole due to poor lighting in the newly built theater.”

“Hmm,” Bellerose said in response, drinking what was likely his fourth cup of coffee this morning. “Now they’re going to investigate their oversights and make more rules about safety and yadda yadda,” he predicted. He got up to fill his cup again. While I was enamored with modern fashion, Bellerose was obsessed with the development of coffee.

He collected coffeemakers, and he had to try every type of cream that was invented for coffee—the invention of alcoholic coffee creams had been a nightmare for me, Bellerose spending nearly a year drunk with its introduction. Though, the sex had been very good that year. 

“How’s the blog?” he asked, leaving his coffee dark. He preferred it this way, his enjoyment of the bitterness almost a direct contrast to his sweet demeanor. 

“Same old,” I responded, pulling it up on my phone to show him.

“Plz do one with Valentine savin a gurl from a… durgon,” Bellerose read. “I want Valentine in my bed for Valentine’s Day…? Valentine should do a naughty monster calendar?? I want him to shoot a spell with _his wand inside me_!?” He was struggling to keep it together, as was I as I listened to him say the ridiculous words.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed, still scrolling through the comments. “Do they not know I’m married!?”

“I doubt they care—look, your ring is clearly visible in this one,” I said, pointing to a picture of his hand outstretched while he shot lightning towards some sort of flying hippo creature.

Bellerose laughed and took my hand in his, observing my own wedding band. We’d made the bands ourselves, mine being gold with silver spatters mixed into the metal, while Bellerose’s was the inverse of mine. They were designed to reflect the marks on our chests, the symbols of our immortality that spidered out from our hearts and beamed in direct light, mine shimmering silver and his gleaming gold.

We’d made them decades before we had ever had a marriage certificate, the only benefit of the paper being that we were allowed to tell people we were married. As far as we were concerned, we’d been married for one-hundred and eighty-five years, and together for one hundred and eighty-six. 

Bellerose kissed my ring and smiled at me before taking his coffee to retreat to the tower.

Even after all this time, the shelves were covered in artifacts containing magic that Bellerose had yet to solve. I watched him go, content to read some more of the silly comments on my pictures until I felt jealous enough of the attention Bellerose was receiving.

Once suitably envious, I would sneak upstairs and insist Bellerose remind me who his biggest fan was.


End file.
